


roused his drowsy blood

by orphan_account



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Present Tense, gratuitous greek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day the two lives converge is dull, clouds covering the sun and rain on the horizon. Patroclus has changed schools, again, another incident forcing him to run, and he feels drawn to the music room, the tune drifting from a window so very familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	roused his drowsy blood

When Achilles wakes from dreams, it is with the sense that something has been lost – an indescribable, spirit deep hollow feeling. Dreams are golden, and living is grey.

He is inattentive at school, polite eternally to his teachers, and excellent at sport. The javelin almost flies from his hands, the sword in fencing an extension of himself.

Music comes naturally, also, but he cannot perform for others. It feels dissonant, another absence he cannot explain. He prefers older instruments, wood over metal, and cannot play piano for love nor money. At first is frustrates his teachers, then it charms them, that someone who excels in all things cannot place a key change or play a scale.

He sleeps to live, and lives for sleep.

\------

Patroclus' dreams are bloodsoaked, for the most part, a dream of gold so rare as to be blessed relief, a beautiful boy living in his head and on the pages he paints, bloodsoaked and painful. He cannot sleep, some nights, and stares instead at the window, stars familiar and yet incorrect, too many and not enough.

He stays at home frequently, his father incapable of approval and Patroclus incapable of caring, schooling seeming so wrong, a fading memory of a half dream keeping him in place – the boy weaving a beautiful tune day after day, so gorgeous it burns into your bones, where he is marked permanently. Philtatos, he thinks, some days, and does not understand.

The first time he fights another, over a simple game, he pushes him over and runs, runs home, vomits and shakes at a sudden feeling of repetition, destiny playing itself over in his head, and he realises these dreams are not a fiction.

\------

The day the two lives converge is dull, clouds covering the sun and rain on the horizon. Patroclus has changed schools, again, another incident forcing him to run, and he feels drawn to the music room, the tune drifting from a window so very familiar.

There is a boy playing the lyre, an anachronism so ridiculous Patroclus nearly laughs, and his hair is covering his face in golden waves. Patroclus feels himself freeze in the doorway. There is a smile barely visible on Achilles' face, and he looks up. Statuesque, they stare at each other. Recognition flares like the sun emerging from the clouds. It is bright, now.

Achilles tilts his head, moves forward, catlike, to rest in front of Patroclus. He is still the shorter of the two.

“I should've known you'd appear only for my music, Patroclus. You always did have great affection for it.”

Patroclus cannot breathe. He wants badly to clutch his arms around Achilles, but if he indulges he is not certain he will be able to let go. They have been apart for a long time.

“Silence, _dear_ Patroclus?” Achilles has recovered himself, smiles slyly. “You never seemed this submissive in the past – have the years changed you?”

Achilles finds himself against Patroclus' chest, and closes his eyes.

\------

They are lying together in the park, hands grazing each other, before long. Lessons seem unthinkable in the face of this, and besides, they are neither of them fond of their teachers. In the face of Chiron, all teaching seems inferior.

“I could see it,” says Patroclus, suddenly. “What happened. After I died.”

Achilles grips his hand tightly. “I am sorry.”

“Don't be.” He rolls closer, brushes his nose against Achilles' cheek. “I would've been the same, if you had died in my place.”

“Then it is well that it did not happen. I would not like you to be remembered for battle.”

“As if I am remembered at all.” He had studied Homer, once, a teacher with a sharp tongue and a taste for jokes at his expense. Today, the man had said, we will study the death of Patroclus.

The dead silence in the room had been deafening, and Patroclus had nearly thrown his book at the man's face. His hand was stayed, somehow, and the verse was – an ignition, of sorts, a feeling of belonging in himself. Achilles was contained within that book, not quite him but close, and it was good.

“Do not belittle yourself.” Achilles' voice is stern, commanding, a tone Patroclus remembers from a thousand speeches to the Akhaians. “Medicine is perhaps not so memorable as a penetrable heel,” He makes a face, this myth clearly distasteful. “But it is worthier by far.”

There is nothing to do then but laugh, and kiss Achilles until they have made up for a thousand years of distance.

**Author's Note:**

> a present for liz astillsoftershade, who i have been tormenting with song of achilles quotes for the past two days and really deserves some achilles/patroclus that isn't absolutely drenched with sadness  
> no i didnt change their names can you imagine an achilles or patroclus not named that


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